


Drunk Reg Shoe

by Slantaholic_01



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Biers, M/M, zombie gay sex slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2014-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-08 23:45:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1138886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slantaholic_01/pseuds/Slantaholic_01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reg tries to find a partner at Biers. Slant bursts in, drunk, and tries to find his bogeyman employee.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Mr Slant opened his door. Some of his people, including undead and living, stared at him through the gap.

"Why do you need all those chains?" asked one employee.

"Since when did I stop becoming 'sir'," said Slant.

"Most sirs don't need all those locks and chains and spikes," she replied.

"This is Ankh," snapped Mr Slant. "I've always locked my door."

"But this is your bedroom door, sir."

"I don't want Mr Honeyplace to come in and intrude."

Mr Slant fished out his keyring and locked the door. "Why are you all here to see me? Couldn't Mr Honeyplace deal with it?"

"Can't find him, sir," said the werewolf employee automatically. "The whole house stinks like a vampire."

"He's down in the cellar."

Slant brushed himself down. "If you don't mind, I shall have to go to work!"

"It's too early, sir," said a human employee. At least Slant thought so; for once, his human employees outnumbered his undead. Bloody Vetinari!

Slant murmured into his sleeve.

"What, sir?" His employees stared in shock. "Are you all right, sir?"

"Damn disorganiser imp! It fell into a hole in my shoulder earlier, and it won't pop out!"

"Sorry to hear that, sir."

"It's—" said Crusher, his bogeyman (or 'bogeymyn' when he had to cross-dress) "—about our bogeymon."

"You are one," said Slant. "How many more do we need?"

Crusher coughed. "We're got two, sir. One man and one woman."

"It's the male one," said the werewolf. "He's disappeared."

"When he's supposed to be on duty," said the human.

"So where does he go in his spare time?" asked Slant. "Have any personal problems arisen?"

"Sir?" asked a human.

"Yes, you may ask me a question," sighed Slant, gripping the stairwell banister tightly.

"Why don't you and Mr Honeyplace," he said, "go and live – reside – in a hotel? It'll be easier."

"We prefer having separate rooms; I prefer houses.

"Now what?"

Crusher held Mr Slant's sleeve. "You're leaning far too over, sir. I don't wish you to fall."

"You look very frail," said the human suddenly.

"Am I about to have a nasty accident?" asked Slant, looking worried. "I've known most of you for years!"

"No, sir."

"There's your disorganiser imp!" cried a human. "It popped out of your other hand!"

"Please don't remind me," said Slant, watching his imp fall down the stairwell. "I think I've lost all my morning appointments."

"So," said the werewolf. "Can you help us, sir?"

"With what? I don't know where he's gone. Or what he does in his spare time. I bet it's not cross-dressing, though." He gave Mr Crusher a pointed look.

"No," said Crusher, looking shifty. "He prefers the Shades, where he was brought up in."

"I'm not going in the Shades," said Slant hurriedly.

"We think he's in Biers," said the cross-dressing werewolf, and explained: "It won't look right, us proper gentlemen, going into the Shades so earlier this morn."

Crusher continued: "We need a reason, sir. On account of some of us—" his arm sweeped in most of the employees "—being married."

"It doesn't look right," continued the gnoll, "having us gentlemen return to the Shades, to a district so close—"

"—to the Seamstress's Guild," finished the werewolf, looking shifty.

"Well," said Slant, "you all seem to know what to say.

"However, I'm not married, and I meet with Mrs Palm and her employees almost every time I have an appointment with some of my clients. Who require a lawyer," he added, afterwards.

"Yes, sir," they chorused. "But it won't look right, unless we have a reason, sir."


	2. Biers

Reg Shoe and Captain Angua, accompanied by Sally von Humpeding and Cheery Littlebottom, all staggered into Biers.

They were somewhat drunk already from _The Bunch of Grapes_.

"Terrible murder," muttered Cheery.

"I need a drink," announced Sally. "Igor, five beers and ten frosted cocktails on the roof, please, at once!"

Angua fumbled for her money-belt. She lifted up her leather shirt.

The pub's many undead inhabitants, including Susan, stared.

Angua counted out coins.

Cheery rolled her eyes, and dragged out some paper dollars.

"I don't know why, Angua," she drawled, drunk, "you let Carrot pay you in half-dollars." (1)

"I know why," slurred Sally, reaching quickly for the first cocktail, and knocked it back.

"Carrot has to use up lots of loose change," said Angua, swaying. "He gets from the Dwarf Bread Museum."

  


(1) Available in Discworld MUD.

  


Mr Slant got of his coach, while everyone else hung back. "Are you sure this is the Shades?" he said. "It's changed a bit in the last thirty years."

"More lamps," implied the werewolf.

"Hint, hint," said Crusher.

"Seamstresses," said the werewolf. She shut the door. Her voice was muffled: "You'll be all right, sir, being a zombie."

"No one suspects a zombie, sir," said the human loudly.

"Possibly," said Slant. He called over his shoulder, "It's in here, then?"

"Yes, sir," said the coach driver. "That big old darkened pub is Biers."

  


Reg Shoe was having a fun, old, swinging time, like back from the old days. (2)

Angua had taken off her breastplate, and was running a comb up and down it.

Cheery was blowing through someone else's horn, and Sally was dancing naked on the table.

Igor still served anyone else entering the pub.

Meanwhile, a bogeyman had sidled up to Susan Sto Helit.

"Hey, baby," he breathed on her. "You fancy a rub up the thigh, eh?"

Susan stared at him, and faded.

He patted the stool she'd been sitting on.

"You're not fooling me, baby. I know where you and the kiddies live!"

Reg Shoe heard the commotion and headed over to where Susan had been. He was drunk.

"Mishter… Bogeyman," he slurred. "You are under arrest for groping an invishible lady!"

He fished out his handcuffs, and slid them quickly over the bogeyman's wrists.

The bogeyman tried to shake them off, but they held. Next, he tried biting his way out.

"Reg!" cried Angua, whipping out a teddy-bear's blanket and chucking it to him. Reg slipped it over the bogeyman's head.

The bogeyman went still, and started moaning.

  


(2) Thirty years ago.

  


Mr Slant approached Biers. He kicked the door open.

The room went quiet, apart from someone moaning and groaning under a blanket.

"Where the hell is he?" growled Slant.

"I'm looking for…" Slant trailed off. "Have I interrupted something?" he asked to the party.

Igor poured him a drink. "Here, sir," he said, and pushed the tumbler along the length of the bar.

The drink slowed before it fell off the end.

"Another drink!" cried Reg Shoe. "A comrade in arms!" He greeted Slant.

Slant retrieved his arm before his hand fell off. Reg, on the other hand, picked up his fingers from the floor.

Slant ignored him and strode forwards.

"Ah, dumb luck," said a patron.

"Woss he doing 'ere?" slurred a drunk patron, reaching for a weapon; it was a stake.

"We don't want no toffs in 'ere," said the first patron, pulling out a sword; it was silver.

Most of the clientèle backed away.

"Come now," said Igor. "We don't want no trouble here." He looked to Slant. "You should be leaving NOW, SIR!"

Slant ducked the first arrow. He grabbed his drink from the edge of the bar and poured it over the first person swinging his fists towards him. Unfortunately, one fist hit him.

Slant went down, with a crowd of people jumping on top of him.

Under the pile, he found Reg Shoe, fighting back.

Igor whistled loudly, and the pub's front door shut, and a back door opened.

Igor must have employed some very strong undead splatters, because the fighters were lifted up, as if by magic, and dumped into the Biers' backyard. The back door hadn't shut though.

Most of the drunk patrons were now fighting each other. At the bottom, Reg Shoe and Mr Slant clutched at each other, trying to avoid the blows.

Slant rolled so that Reg Shoe was on top, and taking the most of the beating.

The drunk patrons stopped as a ball of octarine flew out the back door and slammed all of them into the fence.

The fence held, and magic danced up and down the wood, some of it splintering in the action, and staking the solo vampire in the leg. The bogeyman had a blanket rush over his face, so that he was left groaning; and the other zombie lost an arm which hand held a five foot cutlass.

Reg Shoe and Mr Slant just slammed into the fence.

Reg Shoe lost his handcuffs, and Mr Slant managed to hang on to his keyring.

"DON'T TRY THAT AGAIN!" shouted Igor, being comforted by his splatter. "Come back in when you are all ready to be sobered up!"

"We have a wizard in here," threatened the splatter. "You won't know what day you've been killed, after him!"

Susan slipped away from the crowd.

They saw her watching them out of a window. Her white hair curled itself into a bun. She sniffed disapprovingly.

The bogeyman groaned.

Slant turned his head. "Is that you, my employee?" he tested, checking to see if he had all his teeth.

The bogeyman waited until the cutlass-less zombie pulled the blanket from his eyes.

"Ah fuck," he said, seeing Slant. "What are you doing here, boss?"

"Looking for my employee," answered Slant. "Although I'm not sure."

Reg Shoe retrieved a spare finger from his mouth and spat it into his hand.

"I need that back!" said the other zombie, weedily.

"Who are you?" asked the vampire, trying to get down from the fence. "Shit, would you look at the state of my leg?!"

"I'm Sir Patrick of Nothingyford," said the cutlass-less zombie.

"What?" said Slant. "I haven't heard of you."

"Sir Patrick is my name!" he cried, spitting out a tooth. "Ankh-Morpork is a city of thieves and assassins, my arse."

"I take it you're a thief," said the vampire. "I've lost my stake."

"No, that's my stake," said the bogeyman.

"No, my stake at cards," explained the vampire.

"Are we allowed back in again," said drunk Reg.

He slipped from the fence first. Next, was Mr Slant. Then the vampire and the bogeyman, until who was left? A cutlass-less zombie called Sir Patrick.

"Let me down!" he cried. He swung his remaining arm around; it still held his shield, a plain, wooden thing cut into a diamond shape. Several criss-crosses had been scored upon it.

Reg wanted to play tic-tac-toe upon it, like Vimes once let him do with his scars. Reg suddenly missed Vimes, badly, as a friend.

Reg ran back into Biers, into the forcefield.

"Now then," said the splatter, "no funny business, you lot."

The forcefield held. Sir Patrick still hung from the fence.

"Let me down," he cried weedily. "I'm from a very rich family. My descendants will pay you fifty dolla—" He fell from the fence.

Mr Slant got out a bankroll and palmed half of it into his hand. He waved it at the splatter.

The forcefield wobbled.

Slant hurried towards the door and said, "Is there another way out of here, sir?"

The vampire answered him by flying straight up and hitting his head on an invisible ceiling, rendering him unconscious. He fell hard to the floor, splitting a wing open.

Reg stopped and turned back. He was a Watchman after all.

After splinting the unconscious vampire's wing, Reg managed to re-enter Biers via the front door, as Slant had a got a gate open rather than part with his cash.

Slant was sitting with Angua, Sally and Cheery at their table, in Reg's place.

Angua was so drunk, she hadn't noticed Reg was missing. Rather embarrassingly, Slant was wearing her _bra_ on his head and shoulders. There was a pile of drink tumblers balanced in the centre of the table.

Reg added his new drink to the pile.

"Hello, Reg," slurred Sally. "We, uh, appear to have one zhombie too many."

"Three!" whistled a weedy zombie. It was Sir Patrick, who must have followed Reg in.

Sir Patrick grabbed Reg and shoved his undead swollen tongue down Reg's throat.

"Fuck," said Sally, sitting down on Cheery's fingers. "That looked hot."

Slant turned round and tried to grab some action.

He succeeded in grasping Sir Patrick's doomed cock.

There was a strange sucking noise, and Patrick's trousers pulled off.

"Oh!" said Sir Patrick, looking down. "My merkin just unstuck!"

"So did your dildo!" cried Sally, bursting into laughter. "What did you do that for, Slant?"

"Mr Shlant," said Reg, correcting her.

Slant lapped at the hollow place that remained. Sir Patrick had two wooden balls strung between his legs. They were rope-tied to his hipbone.

"I think Mr Slant's had too much," said the zombie.

"No," said Slant, looking up, "I haven't had _enough_."

"Ooh-la-la!" cried Angua. She tipped back her head and howled.

"I think," said Reg. "You've had enough, Sergeant Angua."

"Captain Angua," she corrected him. "I was promoted by the book. We had all that trouble with the Nac Mac Feegle to the point where no one it seems can remember any of it."

"Other than," said Slant, "they destroyed an entire pub."

"This pub," said Reg, slapping his hand against the table, "is still here."

"This pub," said Cheery, joining in, "is Biers."

"I like it," said Sally.

"I like it a lot," said Angua.

"I need another drink," hinted Igor, clearing away the empty pile of tumblers and cocktail glasses.

"I need five," slurred Sally.

"Again," added Cheery.

"And two for the road," added Angua.

"I need to go back to work," said Sir Patrick.

"I need sleep," said Slant.

"You sleep at night, do you, old boy?" said Sir Patrick, looking in disbelief.

"I work during the day," said Slant. "I'm a guild leader," he added, watching Sir Patrick carefully.

"A guild leader?" echoed the bogeyman. "I hate guild leaders."

"So did I," said Slant, knocking back the first drink Igor offered them. He slapped another dollar down on the table.

"That pays for two," said Reg hopefully.

Igor took the cash.

Angua raised her shirt and fumbled once again for her money-belt. The pub, as one, tried to lean over and watch Angua's hand.

"Ooh-la-la," mimicked Sally, watching avidly.

"We need some mud," said Cheery. She stood up in her chair and climbed onto the clean table.

She kicked her legs around in a dwarfish jig.

The pub, as one, slid back to business. Dwarfs had notoriously hairy legs.

Slant ignored Sally and Cheery.

He slapped the bogeyman on the thigh. "You like that, don't you, old boy?" he said, letting his hand wander.

The bogeyman shifted over to a new table and left the Watchwomen alone.

Slant slung his arm around Sir Patrick.

"Why don't you come home with me, eh?" he said to Slant. "I can find you a nice butt plug to ram that short stick up to your nostrils, Sir Bastard!"

"I say!" said Slant. "I don't agree with that type of talk."

Reg Shoe slapped away Sally's wandering hand.

Slant noticed, and let his hand fall limp while resting his arm over the table.

"Mr Shoe," he said.

"Constable," corrected Angua. "Thish is Reg Shoe."

Cheery said, "He playsh the guitar if you want him to."

Sally said nothing, but snored; she'd fallen asleep over her cocktail glass.

"Reg!" called Sir Patrick. "Play us a ditty!"

"I don't have my guitar," protested Reg, watching Mr Slant get up and wander over.

"I don't like this man," said Mr Slant, indicating Sir Patrick. "He insults me."

"I don't like," said Sir Patrick, "toffs!"

Slant said, "You are one, Sir Patrick. Why else would you bother being called a Sir?"

"I am a Sir, sir," said Sir Patrick. "You are a lord!"

"No I'm not. I'm a Mister."

"Mister Vimesh," slurred Reg. "I miss him."

"You miss his wandering touch," said Sir Patrick. "Ha ha ha!"

He strapped his dildo-cum-merkin onto his crotch, and did up his trousers.

"Howza little boy like you Mister Slant manage to pull my trousers down?" He waggled a finger—

"That's _my_ finger!" cried Reg. "I must have yours instead, sir."

"Patrick," said Sir Patrick. "I was knighted by Queen Sto Helit… five hundred years old."

An empty chair in Biers, by the window, turned to listen.

Igor returned with more drinks, fizzing with formaldehyde and wearing umbrellas.

Slant paid, and Reg drank more than his fare share.

Mr Slant stood up, swaying.

"Where the hell, man, do you put it all?" said his employed werewolf, helping him and Angua into Slant's coach.

"I lost some money," said Slant, puzzled. "My purse is lighter, I think."

"You paid for every drink," said Reg, "after Cheery danced naked on the table!"

Crusher hauled two bogeymen into the coach, one who worked for them, and the other who had now quit.

Next in were Sally and Angua and Reg.

Sir Patrick had been stapled to a nearby wall using his free-hanging arm and a cutlass.

The coach drove off, lit by red lamplight from the Shades.

From the window of Biers, Susan flickered in and out of view headologically.

Next, the door of Biers drew back its locks.


	3. Sex Scene

In the coach, Reg Shoe spewed formaldehyde over Mr Slant's shoes. He toppled over and fell arse over tip into Crusher's lap.

Angua swayed, hanging from the coach's curtain rail, refusing to sit down.

Sally opened her mouth and bit mid-air automatically. "Where am I?" she asked.

"Coach," said Angua. "They're giving us a lift."

Mr Slant had squeezed in between Mr Vincent and Reg Shoe. He didn't know who was who and therefore let both hands wander up and down the people's thighs either side of him.

"Sir," complained Mr Vincent. Slant stopped on the left, and continued on the right, hopefully Mr Shoe's.

"Who's that?" said Cheery. "Someone's hurting my thigh!"

"Oh," said Mr Slant. "Where's Reg?"

"Sitting on me, sir," said Crusher.

"Where are you, Mr Crusher?"

"I'm behind Angua, with the blonde hair and the riled up leather shirt."

"Howza!" cried Cheery, drunk. "Who says that these days?"

"Ankh-Morpork," replied Crusher.

Angua peered into her home, yard, whatever. She lived with Carrot these days, sharing three rooms with him at Pseudopolis Yard.

This yard did not look like it contained straw dummies for Watch training. It contained a milk bottle. That was because the coach had stopped at Elm Street, where Reg Shoe claimed he lived.

"Here, doggy, doggy!" cried Mr Vincent. "Where did that blonde bitch get to?"

Another werewolf joined her, largely black. Her fur was grey, however, but she remembered her best black-looking.

"Wrong way, bitch," she sniffed. "This way for the free coach lift."

Angua turned back into a human, naked apart from her leather collar.

"Phwoah," said Crusher. "I wish I had a body like that."

Reg Shoe tumbled out of the coach and slap bang into his front door. Or Mrs Cake's.

A window opened high up and Ludmilla looked out.

Both werewolves looked up.

"Bloody hell," said Ludmilla. "Mum! There's a naked woman out there. And Ms Spiky."

Ludmilla must have pulled a counterweight as a lower door opened in the yard's wall, and Ms Spiky rushed in.

"See you tomorrow," said Crusher, waving farewell.

Ludmilla withdrew her head and shut the window and the lower door closed.

Reg Shoe fumbled with his key and his finger.

Mr Slant fell out the coach, waving his tube of adhesive.

"Let me," he slurred. "I can stick anything back on with this!"

Crusher tried to grab hold of his employer, but Slant manoeuvred past and fell on top of Reg.

Unfortunately, the lid had already been twisted off Slant's glue and shot out the tube, sticking Slant face-wards to Reg's bare arse.

Slant pulled away quickly before the glue set. He wiped his face free of two sticky spots as most of the glue coated Reg.

He tried to pull the tube away a minute later, but it dangled from Reg's naked arse, stuck hard.

Reg snored.

Mr Slant whirled beseechingly at Crusher and co.

"I don't want a law 'spute from this," he implored. "Can we take him home with us?"

"To the Guild, sir?" asked Crusher.

"To the yard?" barked Angua. "We've got a shpare room."

"To my place," said Slant, ignoring her.

  


"I've got something," said Slant. "It dissolves glue." He stumbled through his front door and into something heavy like an umbrella stand. It was pitch dark, just like Mr Honeyplace liked it before dawn.

By the smell of it, Honeyplace had gone to bed, Crusher informed him.

Angua, Cheery and Sally had been dropped off at Pseudopolis Yard, right before Cheery was due to perform forensics on the latest case. They'd all been snoring the last time Slant had seen them.

"I need sleep," said Slant. "Prepare a clacks…"

Reg awoke and promptly began fighting, slung over Mr Vincent's shoulder.

"Hey!" cried Reg. "What'sh happening?"

"You're at my place," said Slant delightfully. "I don't believe we've had the pleasure before."

"Put him down arse-up," said Crusher. "I'll go and get the glue-dissolver, sir."

"Yes," said Mr Vincent, locking the front door and righting the umbrella stand.

"I think," said Slant, "I may need… to be… alone—"

"What would Mr Honeyplace say?"

Slant looked nonplussed. "I don't complain when he brings back virgins."

Mr Vincent shrugged. "Me and Crusher will clean him up of glue. You wait here, sir."

  


"I don't fancy," said Mr Vincent to Crusher as they went through the pantry, "clearing Reg Shoe up at all."

"'Cos he's another zombie," suggested Crusher.

"We just put the boss down in front of the Embalmer's Guild when he needs a clean out." Mr Vincent located the glue-dissolver next to the potatoes.

"And don't you go telling him. That we do that."

"He must know. The vampires started it."

"Fiddly bastards!" swore Mr Vincent. He caught the dissolving potion before it smashed on the floor.

"Damn good catch."

  


Reg Shoe woke up with someone wiping his arse.

He didn't have a hangover as he hadn't got round to moving alcohol back from his brain to his spleen again. Or was it supposed to be his liver?

A few years of Watch training kicked in. He rolled over, fell off a stool, and rolled under a grand piano.

"Get him!" he heard. "The carpet!"

Someone with a dry, dusty throat began chuckling.

Reg Shoe flipped onto his front, and drunkenly crawled out and leapt to his feet in fear. His truncheon was gone, but not his armour. He raised his fists in protection like Carrot had showed him.

Crusher swung a shelf from the pantry at him. It caught him in the middle.

Reg's liver dropped into his crotch. His mice vamoosed down his britches and leapt at his attackers.

"Argh! Mice! Where did those bastards come from?!"

Crusher stepped on a mouse and slipped. He tumbled into Mr Vincent, but regained his balance after Mr Vincent hit the carpet.

Reg turned to face the third attacker, and the last thing he saw was his mouse streaking towards the wall.

  


Mr Slant helped him into a spare bedroom. "I'm sorry about your mouse, Reg, but Crusher couldn't help himself."

What he didn't ask was: Why do you attack everybody?

Reg's drunken mind – because the only way Reg could cope with Slant was by staying drunk – replied: Because this is Ankh-Morpork.

Reg curbed his fear and wondered how he could get Slant's arm off his shoulders. Slant, with his other hand, closed the bedroom door.

"Well, Reg," he said, throwing himself onto the bed. He sat up quick. "Uh, do you like—"

Reg blinked, and kept blinking.

In between blinks, Slant had taken off his tie and jacket.

"Come in, Reg," Slant said, and leaned forwards.

"We're both drunk," said Reg, weighing up his chances of escaping out of the chimney or the window. This wasn't what he had expected.

"Oh," said Slant sadly, leaning back. "What do you want?"

Money, thought Reg. Mister Vimes to rescue me. Not politics. Not s—

Why not? thought Reg. I can't tell on him, and he can't tell on me. Reg knew that Ankh-Morpork, despite being a sailor's town, this close to the Circle Sea, still disapproved of open homosexuality (and bisexuality). There were too many books about men and women together (which Reg liked) in libraries, than books about… undead and undead.

Mr Slant fiddled with his tie. He had it strung around his neck, and looked like he wanted to put his jacket back on.

Reg swayed from undead to women metaphorically in his mind. He hadn't met many zombie women since, well, dying. They were rumours that some lived in Klatchian harems alongside a zombie Seraph. Ankh-Morpork was rumoured to have over a hundred zombie wizards… and watchmen, and a reporter, and a lawyer.

The zombie lawyer pushed himself off the bed and quickly opened the door. "You can tell my private… employees that you've changed your mind. If you're quick, you can return to your home before dawn."

What he didn't say was: Take my coach.

Reg shivered. Elm Street was still pretty close to the Shades.

"I'll stay," decided Reg. He hadn't had sex since Nobby discovered a goblin girlfriend… or cross-dressing with Lord Vetinari.

"Hahaha," Reg laughed. "Do what I say!"

"It took you long enough," said Mr Slant, shutting the door and balancing on the bed on his knees.

Reg stood in front of the bed and removed his breastplate and helmet.

"No, keep your hat on," said Slant. "What do you want me to do, Mister Shoe, next?"

"Take your shirt off!"

"All right." Slant took his arms out of his shirt, but kept his tie on. He flung his white shirt to the floor.

How do you look like that? thought Reg.

 _Can you hear me?_ thought Slant telepathically to him.

No, thought Reg. He looked better with the shirt on.

 _Say something_ , whispered Slant.

"What about the tie?" he asked.

"I can put it in my mouth," said Slant. He took the tie and gagged himself with it. _Like this_.

"Oh," said Reg. "That's what it's for.

"Next, sir—" Wear a sheet, he thought "—fold your arms behind your head, like a bow."

"Yes, master," said Slant. "One elbow's better than the other. I'll do with one arm, master."

"Grope yourself with the other."

"As lightly as I dare, master." Slant started rubbing himself. "What next?"

Reg said, "Can I take my helmet off?"

Slant sighed. "If you really need to, master."

Reg flung his helmet through the window.

He undid the straps that sometimes held his armour in place. They were leather and had big buckles.

"You've done that already," said Slant, sounding more than a little annoyed.

Reg went to loose his britches, but found himself wearing nothing below the waist. He looked down. His sole clothing were boots.

Reg lost the rest of his armour until he wore nothing but boots and a leather shirt.

Slant helped him with the shirt, up over his head.

"Wow," said Slant sarcastically. "What a magnificent sight, master. And I hear you're only about thirty."

"About sixty, now," said Reg. "Living and undead."

"Oh my." Slant's head turned to the window. Dawn had begun to seep across Ankh-Morpork. "Close the curtains, master."

"Yesh, sir." Reg pulled the curtains to.

Slant reached into Reg's exposed belly, under his ribcage, and felt around for his gonads.

Slant squeezed. "Can you get these organs going, master?"

Reg concentrated, and switched on his internal kinaesthetic senses. "Mmm. I think sho."

Slant narrowly missed Reg's former incident with glue, and instead of groping for Reg's buttocks, waved his free hand near Reg's hip.

Mr Slant rebalanced himself on the bed.

Reg felt a young instinct bloom into unlife.

He quickly grabbed Slant by the hair and pushed him onto a growing erection.

“Oh my,” said Slant delightfully. “Still got it, master.”

Slant pulled Reg’s cock gently until it was erect.

He slid his lips along Reg’s cock, and swallowed. 

Reg blinked, and kept his eyelids fluttering.

 _More, master?_ asked Slant, automatically. He was used to vampires.

Slant turned his hand around Reg's balls with a feather-touch, in case they dropped off.

"Sir?" said Reg after a moment. "I need to—" And Reg sat down on a wooden chair.

Slant pulled back. "Why did you do that?" he said in dismay. "You're still gluey."

Reg kept sitting down on a weird instinct. It kept telling him that he was dead and infertile. He didn't deserve to cum.

"Get up," said Slant. "The glue might set. That's my chair."

"I'm shitting on it," said Reg.

"I bloody well hope not," said Slant. "Get off of it!"

Reg tried to stand up, but a subtle sticking noise had already occurred.

Slant shut his eyes. "Fuck," he said.

How expensive is the chair? thought Reg. Worth more than your annual paycheck, said a instinct.

"Sir, it's been a very naughty chair. Bad chair."

Slant glared at him. "It's a good chair. It's over two centuries old."

"It's a spare chair in a spare room."

Reg was sure about this. He had nothing to cum with, but if he fiddled around in his brain (this was why it was so crap with Nobby), and if Slant didn't mind waiting, he could definitely cum with someone else still holding his cock.

Like several hours later.

Reg pulled his cock back, away from Slant’s tempting lips. He shuffled the chair backwards, just to make sure.

He shuffled the chair backwards, just to make sure.

"Oh," said Slant. "That's why it's a good chair."

Slant balanced on the bed, on his knees again. He had his trousers still on, but with all the buttons undone (which had gotten in the way)and his erect cock jutting slightly out and upwards.

Reg, however, was sure that even Nobby's cock had looked more lifelike than either of them. He wasn't sure yet if he liked zombie cock.

Slant had paused. Perhaps he was adjusting a few things in the gonad department.

Reg fiddled with his brain. No, said the instincts. This is used for making babies ONLY.

He argued with his instincts, fruitfully, as it turned out.

Okay, they said. You can over the lawyer, but not in him.

Reg pumped his balls full of formaldehyde. They started to fizz.

Slant somehow detected a change in him. "Now what?" he growled.

Reg shuffled the chair forward, until he could lever himself to a standing position whilst balancing on the bed. He tipped himself forward until gravity ripped the chair from his arse; he himself fell face first onto Slant's jutting cock.

"That," said Slant, "was a bit too rough, master. But I'm sure the chair's fine."

Slant angled his cock and balls so that Reg had to reciprocate. Reg handled Slant's cock and sucked along its length.

"Reg," cried Slant. "Why didn't you do this earlier? I could be master…"

Reg's liberal instincts cut in. "We don't need a master."

"I'm usually master to a lot of people," said Slant, tasting drunk to Reg. "I need a master, sometimes."

Reg repeated his slogan. Sometimes people catched on. "We don't need a master."

"No, master," said Slant, smiling. Slant turned Reg's face to the side. "I employ lots of people who call me boss."


	4. Vimes And The Watch

It was much later that morning.

Mister Vimes sat at his desk. Piles of paperwork were held to the sides now with glue.

"Reg?" he asked. "I don't mean to be rude, but you smell terrible."

"I lost a mouse earlier," he said. "Rosebud died when someone trod on her."

"Is Rosebud in your pocket, Reg?" said Vimes carefully.

"No, sir, I wanted to bury her in the garden, but – time wouldn't allow."

Vimes shuffled his paperwork.

"I was getting late for work, sir."

"Reg?"

"Yes, Sam?"

"You smell… odd."

"I was out with Angua, Cheery and Sally last night, sir. Biers," he explained.

Vimes coughed. "Had a good time?" he said eventually.

"Oh yes, sir!"

"Bingley-bingely-beep!" Vimes hit his hand against his breast pocket. He wore a light blue suit ready for lunchtime.

"Time for lunch!" cried Vimes' imp. "Meeting with laywers re: swamp dragon sanctuary!"

Reg winced and told the truth.

Vimes stared at him over his desk for the next ten minutes of Reg's tale of alcohol and woe. He scribbled something in his notebook about Sir Patrick.

"Then," said Reg, "Mr Slant bribed Igor's splatter into letting us back in."

"What was Mr Slant doing there?"

Reg hesitated. "I don't know," he admitted. "But I think he was very keen in being as conservative as possible whilst being as open as can be."

"Reg? What about this bogeyman and Susan?"

"Oh, he was harassing her and I tried to break them up."

Vimes pinched the top of his nose. "Bingley-bingley-beep!" said his imp.

Commander Vimes held the disorganiser to his lips and said, "Relay this message: I can't make it today. We'll talk later, to my wife. End message.

"Reg, tell me everything that happened in Biers."

  


Mr Slant was faking a hangover in his coach. As a zombie, most of the formaldehyde was preserving his corpse, as was now the alcohol.

It was simpler, however, in front of his employees to keep faking side effects like they suffered, and expected him to as well.

"Argh," he muttered, remembering nice detail about legalising troll buses alongside the dwarf-planned underground.

Ms Spiky sniffed. "You'll be all right, sir," she said happily.

Mr Crusher was asleep in the corner. Mr Vincent had gone home, and the last human employee was resting with his head upon Crusher's shoulder.

They were due to pick up the Slant's morning employees at the Guildhouse.

The coach stopped suddenly, wheels squealing. Half of them were flung forward in the halt. Crusher and the human employee awoke on the opposite seats; Ms Spiky and Slant slammed into each other.

"Sorry, sir!" cried Ms Spiky, and climbed quickly out of the door. "What's happening?" they heard her ask the coach driver.

Police whistles sounded up and down the street.

  


Constable Reg Shoe staggered up the street, heading towards the Brass Bridge, lagging behind Constable Visit.

Visit rang his watch bell. "All officers! All officers!"

Reg Shoe caught him up. "No need, Washpot," he gasped. "I know this bastard."

Washpot shoved a bunch of Om leaflets into his breastplate. "It's an unholy bastard from out the Shades, Reg, not like you."

Up ahead, an armless zombie gripped a cutlass between his teeth and spun in a circle, amid cries of alarm from Ankh-Morpork citizens.

"Stop in the name of the law!" cried Constable Visit, still ringing his bell.

  


The door of the coach slammed open.

"Will you lot stop that wretched noise?" cried Ms Spiky to the speeding watchmen. She shut the door, keeping in the best of the oxygen, the smell, and the dark.

Mr Slant had recovered somewhat from the night before.

"Can we get on to the Lawyers Guild?" he hinted.

Crusher groaned, and levered off the human employee, who was bleeding.

Ms Spiky tossed across some bandages; he staunched the blood-flow, but they could all still smell it.

  


Reg Shoe skidded across the Ankh-Morpork cobblestones, and grabbed at a horse's harness for balance. The coach driver swore at him, and drove his coach onwards.

The coach's rear-door opened briefly, and a bleeding human fell out.

Reg Shoe grabbed him. They both slipped in the mud; Reg landed atop of him, and they rolled. Reg saw underneath the coach, in a tangle of horses' legs and wheels.

Reg cried, "Washpot!"

Next, Constable Visit ran past the coach, away from Sir Patrick to leap onto a milk cart.

Reg scrambled to his feet, manhandled the bleeding human into an interested woman's arms – the last Reg saw was her helping him back into the coach – _weird_ – before Visit whacked out his handcuffs and arrested the milkman.

  


Vimes grunted discontentedly as Visit hauled an invisible suspect into one interview room, while Reg Shoe and Detritus moved an armless zombie into another.

"This is Sir Patrick," said Reg. "I met him last in Biers after that fight."

Visit panted, "This is Mr Soak. He's agreed to come quietly."

"And transparently," said Vimes, "by the looks of things. Wizard?"

"Milkman," explained Visit. "He caused a disturbance on the Brass Bridge, waving a magical sword around. Reg saw him, trying to cut his way through the traffic jam."

Vimes said, "Where's the sword?"

Visit shrugged. "We don't know, sir. Only the undead can see it."

  


Crusher hauled Mr Slant over the threshold of the Lawyers Guild and handed him over to the day staff.

"Be gentle with him," he warned. "He's been drinking all night."

Slant brushed himself off. "Thank you, Mr Crusher. I'll see you all tonight."

Ms Spiky walked in, carrying a human employee over her shoulder.

"He needs a doctor," she announced, dumping him into their arms. "And I need bed."

They left Slant, still nursing his fake hangover.

  


Reg Shoe sat down opposite Mr Soak.

To his consternation, someone floated through the wall wearing a lacy black cowl. He had a pale face and stark white hair, and looked somewhat feminine.

He faced away from Reg, and spoke gently.

"Mr Ronnie Soak, what are you _thinking_?" He began to click his fingers, then they both disappeared. The top page of Reg's notebook had been ripped out.

Reg didn't remember anything, and he got up to tell Vimes so.

  


Susan dragged Ronnie into Binky's stable.

"How could you get arrested like that?" she asked.

"I was getting rid of that zombie for you," said Ronnie, patting his sheathed sword. "I heard he was causing trouble last night in Biers."

Susan rubbed her scar. "I can handle it myself," she snapped.

Ronnie looked around. "Why are we here?" he asked.

"Granddad's gone away again, and the Rat dragged me in here. Can you find Granddad, Ronnie?"

Ronnie shrugged. "The yoghurt will go manky. You don't know what the Lawyers' Guild is like with manky yoghurt. The cream curdles in Ankh-Morpork faster than anywhere else in the multiverse."

CAN YOU FIND DEATH, RONNIE? Susan slumped a little as the technique left her.

Ronnie shoved his hands into his pockets. "If you put it like that, Miss Susan, I shall."

She glared at him. "I'm not doing his job forever, you know, just until he returns."


	5. Death/Reg Shoe

It was harder looking for lost members of the apocalypse than Ronnie remembered. Mostly they honed in on him to provide free alcohol after a long slog at work, there being more apocalypses back in the day when wizards grew towers and witches built projects, and normal people made war, understanding neither concept nor the conceptial art.

The Discworld had been built to look pretty from space, and was equipped with more natural weather systems than whatever place most of the newest inhabitants had evacuated from. The newest inhabitants including swamp dragons, elves, goblins, dwarfs and more humans. There were always humans.

Ronnie didn't expect to find anyone other than human. So it was to his surprise when he located Famine amongst the Nac Mac Feegle, War atop a mountain with yetis, and Pestilence hovering over the trolls. Death still hadn't showed up, as a quick search around his office yielded. He had left most of his important sigils strung up on a bookstand. It was like walking around naked, rather like Ronnie did in the dairy.

Ronnie really wondered when Death had started to let himself go.

He chaotically checked some of the more dangerous places in Four-Ecks and Klatch. Lots of magic had built up over the millenia, and he recalled when Pestilence had lost his horse to the Great Nef.

Searching didn't reveal anything. So he started to ask around. Cori Celeste was up first.

To his horror he met the Valkyrie's riding school first; War's daughter and sons were there, but hadn't spotted him. He flew into the side door as a cyclone, and shapeshifted into a regular godly being, strong muscles and very male.

He was greeted by angels. Contrary to opinion, the Horsemen made up the elite classes, but behaved somewhat backwards.

"Hiya, babe," he said to an angel. "Have you seen Mort?"

"Death?" said the angel, wiping spittle off her wing. "No, no," she said, thinking. "He was seen last over in Bes Pelargic dealing with snakes."

"Thanks, babe," said Kaos and grinned. "Do you fancy dinner s—"

He ducked laughing as she hurled a lightning bolt at him.

  


Ronnie found Death in the Agatean cat sanctuary.

He was lying on the ground, covered in cats, most long-haired and plain-coloured. Cat fur was everywhere.

He appeared to be unconscious, or in severe deep thought. Two cats were balanced atop his skull, shielding his expression.

Ronnie lifted one cat and dumped it on a shelf.

One very small white dot was still visible in one eye socket. The other eye was obviously shut.

Ronnie kicked him in the ribs. "Wake up, Mort! You've caused me no end of hassle."

Death's skull turned to the left. The other cat's tail dangled into his right eye socket.

"Mew!" it meeped cheerfully. Ronnie wasn't sure if all cats could see them, or only the magical variety. Several cats looked fed up at their bony bed shifting around.

Death stuck his arms out, and moved as if he had to think about every movement in advance.

The cats poured off him, but not the cat fur.

Death stood up, swaying a little, with only one cat still perched on his head.

Both eyes flared into 'life'. Death squinted at Ronnie Soak.

WHY ARE YOU HERE?

"I've been looking for you everywhere, old boy, that's why. Susan can't work two jobs, not at her age. She's still very human, and she's got a class to teach. Why can't that bloody Albert do it?"

AARGH.

"You don't get hungover, not unless we want it." Ronnie grinned wickedly and floated a large amount of cat hair onto Death's skull. He patted it on him, and even stuck some cat fluff around his jaw like a beard. Most of it was white, but Ronnie managed to rearrange a ginger streak through it.

Death batted him away, and brought the scythe into view. He leaned on it heavily, like a stick.

"You can't shave yourself with that. Ha!" said Ronnie. "You'll be a right old sight walking into Cori Celeste like that. I doubt they'd let you in."

I'M NOT WEARING A SUIT.

YOU MENTIONED… YOU'VE BEEN TALKING TO SUSAN.

"And you remember talking about me later to her."

Death nodded. SHE WILL SPEAK ILL OF YOU.

Ronnie shrugged. "Can we get back to my vats now? The butter needs stirring."

Death stared. I REMEMBER… IT GETS INTERESTING.

  


Ronnie guided Death back overseas towards Ankh-Morpork. He smelt horribly like cats and booze. The cat fur had blown off backwards over Ronnie. He was half-debating with himself as to whether a quick dip in the ocean would remove the fluff.

DO YOU THINK HE WILL LIKE FLOWERS?

Ronnie said, spitting out cat hair, "Who?"

I MEET HIM AFTER SUSAN. HE'S… INTERESTING.

"Lobsang? He's staying with his mum these days. Turn left now into the eddy."

Death lost balance and twirled. He found the right direction at last and sped up.

Ronnie rolled his eyes, and followed at a fast gait.

  


Reg Shoe approached the weird junior school that Susan Sto Helit worked at. They'd sent a note to the Watch when she failed to show up at work that morning. Apparently her grandfather took ill at spontaneous moments, but she usually informed them before disappearing.

Reg Shoe and Angua supposed it was due to Biers. They were greeted by Madam Frout.

They were about to go in when Reg saw two people crash-land into the playground.

"Hoy!" he yelled. "Angua, that's that man from the Brass Bridge! He escaped this morning!"

Reg started running.

"The milkman Mr Soak?" he heard her ask from way behind.

Reg Shoe put on a faster spurt of speed and hurled himself over a low fence, designed to keep small children in.

He whipped out his handcuffs as he drew level. Soak was getting up and untangling himself from a vicious implement and a thin black cape, which was more voluminous than Reg expected. Inside was another pale person, this time, Death.

ER, CONSTABLE REG SHOE, ISN'T IT?

"You're under arrest," shouted Reg, attempting to handcuff the milkman. It was a strange scene that was unfolding before him.

Angua caught up, and swung herself at Soak; she managed to pull one arm behind his back before he went intangible again. Together, both undead police officers struggled to clap the handcuffs on.

Death stood up. THANK YOU. HE WAS GETTING MORE IRRITATING THE CLOSER WE GOT TO HOME.

Ronnie Soak gave in. "Fine, fine, I'll get back to the guild quicker like this. It's better than fetching Susan for a good old family reunion."

Death nodded, and with a click of his fingers, disappeared. A trace of animal hair wafted to the ground.

Angua led him in the direction of the Watch House. "You're related to Susan, then?" Reg heard her ask. Two more watchmen, both trolls, had lumbered to help Angua.

Reg stayed to retrieve his fingers. He fumbled for his repair kit, and jammed his needle into his knuckle.

REG SHOE? asked a pale spectre, fading into view.

"I'm not ready yet," he muttered. "I'm a watchman now, not an undead equal rights activist. Lord Vetinari had words."

I KNOW, said Death. IT'S WRITTEN DOWN SOMEWHERE WHAT HE SAID.

"And I didn't say anything," said Reg Shoe bitterly. He sucked at the thread, and rethreaded the needle.

Death paused. DO YOU PREFER ROSES OR PETUNIAS?

"I've put too many roses on my own grave," said Reg. "Over the years, they turn to mush."

Death tried again. DO YOU LIKE CURRY?

"Why?" asked Reg. "It's hard enough trying to get formaldehyde in." He sighed. "I used to."

He contemplated Death before him. "Why are you still here?"

Death gave in. WOULD YOU LIKE DINNER AT SIX?

Reg inwardly blinked. First Slant, now Death. Somehow, after Slant, he was immensely popular. Ooh-er.

He smiled. "Perhaps I would, but first I've got a suspect to catch up on."

  


Back at the Watch House, Reg Shoe, Mr Slant, Death, Angua and Ronnie Soak all piled into the same room.

"This is very unusual," said Mr Slant. "Why have I been brought here?"

I AM WAITING FOR SUSAN, stated Death.

"We're not," said Angua. "Mr Soak you are charged with causing an affray on the Brass Bridge at eight forty nine this morning. You have the right to remain quiet. You have the right to contact a lawyer –"

"Me, I think," said Slant. "Although I charge two hundred dollars an hour."

Reg Shoe gulped and turned to Death. "How much do you earn, sir?" he asked.

NOTHING, said Death. A TIDIER WORLD, PERHAPS.

"What about all those coins?" said Slant. "You keep paying Klatchian Gardens with them. It's dreadful trying to exchange them for modern currency."

BE QUIET. RONNIE, WHAT ARE YOU IN TROUBLE FOR?

"Nothing like the old days," said Ronnie Soak. "I haven't thrown a machine out of a hotel window for aeons, nor have I disturbed the fabric of reality, or shot at anyone."

Angua growled, "We're setting the bail at fifty dollars."

Mr Slant said, "I see no further need on my part to stay this evening. May I introduce a better supernatural lawyer tomorrow, Mr Soak?"

"I –" said Reg Shoe, "– want his sword examined forensically."

"I'll have the lawyer tomorrow," said Ronnie. He heaved his sword out of his belt and handed it over. Constable Reg Shoe gave him a ticket in return.

"As you wish," said Slant, and without looking at Reg, left the Watch House.

Death peered at Ronnie. YOU ARE STAYING HERE, AM I CORRECT?

"Yes, for tonight," said Ronnie. "The yoghurt's already crawled out of the pots by now. A hazard of living in Ankh-Morpork, y'know."

  


Death met Reg Shoe outside.

I HAVE TO GO NOW. IT WAS AN INTERESTING DATE.

"A date?" said Reg. "That was Watch business!"

IT'S GONE PAST SIX, said Death peevishly. I HAVE TO RETURN TO WORK.

"You work the night shift, then?" asked Reg.

I WORK WHEN REQUIRED. SUSAN MUST BE VERY BORED BY NOW.

"So she moonlights when she's not a school teacher?"

NO. THE HORSE SHOWS UP. BINKY LIKES HER.

"And Binky is…?"

MY HORSE.

"Er."

YES?

Reg gave in. "Shall we say Thursday at six again?"

Death grinned. IT'S A DATE!

  


THE END


End file.
